The Horrors of the Mall

Yesterday presented me with a wonderful opportunity:  A close male friend of mine asked me to help him shop for clothing.  Being a woman, I gladly agreed, but playing Barbies with Billy yesterday left me with this question:  Why do women love to shop?  Women rate the mall on par with their best friends.  Yet reminiscing on many of my shopping trips has helped me to realize the emotional scars that shopping has left.  In fact, it seems that although women adore fashion, clothing could easily be viewed as a woman’s mortal enemy.

For example, every woman has to endure the crippling embarrassment associated with her first trip to the lingerie department. I remember my own traumatic experience as though it were yesterday.  The fluorescent lights of Sears seemed to spotlight me – I knew that Mall Security would broadcast my lack of underwire to the public.  I tried to hide behind Mom as she questioned the blue-haired fitting room attendant about a sizing.  However, it was no use.  Within moments, Mrs. Blue-Hair caught me around the chest with her lasso.  She came close enough that I could feel her breath, and then suddenly, stealthily, began molesting me with her tape measure.  I shuddered, as her gnarled, wrinkled fingers walked down the numbers on the tape measure.  “Thirty-two A,” she noted coldly, finally releasing me from her prison, and then escorted me into a sea of pastel brassieres, none of which seemed to fit.  Yes, every woman has had this experience, and every woman bears the same scar.

Around the time of The Trauma of The First Bra, a girl’s love-hate relationship with clothing begins when she discovers The Junior’s Department.  Variety gains a new meaning in Junior’s.  A plethora of cuts, fits, and washes both overwhelm and excite.  Now, my first excursion into the Junior’s department was unconventional:  My father took me.  Don’t get me wrong, Dad is wonderful.  However, he has no knowledge of women’s clothing.  He was as nervous as I was as we searched for clothes to fit my not-yet fully developed thirteen-year-old body.  In his confused state, he deviated momentarily from the male norm and asked a saleslady for directions.  We stopped at the fitting room together.

“Excuse me,” my father addressed the woman politely.  “Do you know where we could find clothes for one her size?” He pointed at me as though being “my size” was a curse that no preteen could overcome.

“How old is she?”  The saleslady smiled to feign helpfulness.  “Alright, if she’s thirteen, she wears a size fourteen in little girl’s.  You see, girl’s sizes go in even numbers, and if you’re thirteen, you round up.”

My father and I were mildly disgusted, as we were on a quest to replace those size 14 pants that had recently become too small.  But we thanked the lady politely and wandered the store.  We would brave the wilderness of Junior’s sizes alone.

That same day, I discovered the most evil ploy of the fashion industry:  Some cruel soul had invented a horrible type of jeans.  The moment the wearer attempts to pull them on, a struggle ensues.  The Pants grasp and claw at the thighs, while the buyer, in a desperate attempt to maintain a shred of dignity, pulls and tears upward.  The only thought in her mind is, ‘There is no way that I am going up to a size five.’  She is determined, and she will win the upward struggle, but The Pants will have their revenge.  When they are finally in their place, they contract even more, causing symptoms such as shortness of breath, sweating, shaking, sharp abdominal pain, and unsightly pouches of fat around the stomach.  In nearly all cases, the buyer feels trapped and struggles to rip the pants off before they cause permanent damage.  Emotional scarring is common:  Every woman’s deepest fear is the idea of becoming trapped in The Pants That Make You Feel Fat.

And I do mean every woman – even those with delicate frames face the possibility of becoming ensnared in the nets of complicated clothing – some outfits are inherently difficult to wear.  Likely offenders include tank-tops that tie and button in odd manners, cropped tops that limit shoulder movement, sleeveless shrugs that resemble caveman garb, and small, shapeless crocheted numbers that have no discernable function.  One particular encounter comes to mind:  I once met a dress with three straps.  It was beautiful, it was blue, it was confusing, but I had to know – how would it look?  Slightly puzzled by the dress’s mechanics, I took it into the fitting room and braved its labyrinth.  It was mere moments before I was hopelessly stuck.  Panicking, I yelled for help.  Though it was easy for me to accidentally adorn the dress sideways, it was more than slightly more difficult to remove it again.  Yes, clothing claustrophobia, or the fear of becoming imprisoned in the dark bowels of a garment, is a common feeling among the fashion conscious.

The fashion world can be a horrific scene, yet women continue to brave the perils of the mall.  Maybe it is evolutionary – it is possible that Eve herself braved a den of tigers for trendier fig leaves.  No matter the cause, however, women persevere.  We are the bold, the beautiful – the well-dressed.  So ladies, wear your X chromosomes with pride, for you are strong:  You know how to shop.